Sunday, July 27, 2008
Senior Mettle
I was shocked to hear that my pickleball doubles partner was in the hospital. To be honest, once I heard that her medical emergency would only be a temporary condition, my relief turned to concern of how her sidelining condition affected me. Cheryl would not be able to be my partner in the state Senior Olympics Games.
OK, I consoled myself, I still have singles and mixed doubles. And imagine how she feels. She can’t play at all. Then I learned that there would be no bracket in my age division for singles, because Cheryl and I had been the only entrants, and also that I would miss the mixed doubles event because it conflicted with a funeral I wanted to attend. Now I did know how Cheryl felt. I was highly disappointed.
The pickleball venue for the Senior Olympics was the YMCA where I work, and T.J., a co-worker, was in charge of the event. He came up to me on the morning of the pickleball events, and said, “I put you in the women’s doubles bracket anyway. Better find yourself a partner.” “But who?” I questioned desperately. We both saw Pat, an athletic woman, going into an office down the hall. Bingo!
Pat is 60, but looks mid-40’s, and is a fierce racquetball player. She had played a few games of pickleball about a year ago, but quit when it threw off her racquetball game. “I don’t even know the pickleball rules anymore!” she protested, when I pressed her to be my partner. I promised to give instructions as we played, and she sportingly agreed to participate.
We only played two games, and I tried to be both player and coach. “Stay back after the serve! Charge the net after your return! Let the ball bounce on both sides! Poach, poach! Now…now…overhead smash!” Pat was pretty amazing for someone with so little experience, and we managed to push one game to extra points past the usual 11. But in the end, we did not win either game.
I heard many times from various participants during the Senior Olympics, “we’re here to have fun!” And it was fun. It was also quite inspiring to see the determination and spirit of the different athletes that competed. I started a 10k race alongside a 76-year old woman who had entered over 10 events. I saw a 68-year old man coolly shoot 25 for 25 in the free throw event. And I marveled at the skill and spryness of an octogenarian table tennis player. This mettle, and the friendly sportsmanship of people like Pat, are what made my first Senior Olympics a memorable occasion.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Caution: Bollard Ahead
“Caution: Bollard Ahead”. I noticed these words painted on the running path at fairly frequent intervals, but I had no idea what a bollard was. Cautious I was, though, because I was running on a path in the industrial area of an unfamiliar big city. My niece’s husband had given me good directions to the path, but he hadn’t mentioned that it was in a slightly run-down area of town.
It was about 7:30 on a Saturday morning, and the path was deserted. I felt a little uncomfortable, and wondered if I’d been naïve to assume that the running paths of most cities, whether large or small, were relatively safe. The path followed a meandering river, and through the trees I could see fences and warehouses, machinery and factories. I kept running, looking out for the bollards, whatever they were.
The first people I saw were two women on bikes. As they pedaled by, the one in the lead said, “There’s a homeless man sleeping by the pond. At the dock.” I didn’t know where the pond was, and I wasn’t sure whether I should be concerned. I continued up a hill and over the top, and saw that the trail edged a large pond, though I didn’t see a dock, or any person. I continued on the path, and around a bend, I saw the dock, and a rough camp, with an empty tent, but no man. I noted with some alarm a bike at the camp, but I decided, perhaps with a bit of judgmental arrogance, that even if a homeless man chased me down on his bike, I would be able to outrun him once he dismounted.
The path left the pond and headed into an even more remote, wooded area. It was shady and cool and pleasant. A sign read, “You may see weeds with flowers. Watch for quail, which live here year round.” I saw lots of weeds, one surprise lone patch of daisies, no quail, and no homeless man. This part of the path was flat and very comfortable for running. Very little nervousness and worry lingered, and my mind wandered to the tragedy still unfolding in my small home town miles away.
I mused on the fragility of life and the abruptness with which it sometimes ends. I wrestled to understand the divine plan which often leaves us with difficult questions, and no clear answers. I mourned the despair and loss for those left grieving. As I ran, I found, if not answers, some peace. The nearby river flowed freely, and its rushing water provided a reassuring constancy amidst change. The quiet shady woods reminded me that sometimes one must be still, and unencumbered by the world’s noise, to hear and understand answers of eternal consequence.
I ran several more miles, and toward the end of my long run, I figured out that bollards are the sturdy metal posts inserted vertically in the running path to prevent people from driving motor vehicles on it. It was especially easy to avoid all of the bollards on my run, given the advance warnings. The figurative bollards in life arrive unsuspectingly, without caution signs, though, and can very painfully knock us right off our paths. Still, there is always hope. And strength derived from our faith, our families, and our friends can help to right us, and get us running again.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
At the Parade
The little town in which I live is small, but has a lot of character and heart. The people who reside here are friendly, mostly conservative people, who love their country, and yes, their guns, and their religion too.
Some pictures from our recent rodeo parade reflect the values and attitude of the people in my community, who proudly stand when the
This parade had all the usual features, and a couple of unique elements as well—vintage cars, horse-drawn buggies and wagons, bands, horse patrols, service organizations, Klydesdales, pooper scooper crews, clowns, police cars and fire trucks, pink piggy bankers, stumping politicians and poised beauty queens, farm implements, waving kids, a mechanical bull, and even a live camel. The parade was not elaborate, but reminded me of the reasons why I happily live in this small Western town, and why I am proud to be an American.
Sunday, July 06, 2008
MapMyRun
Some friends told me about a website, MapMyRun.com, which integrates Google map technology and workout information into an organizational tool for runners. Previously I had estimated the distance of parts of various runs that were along paths or trails that I could not drive and measure with my car’s odometer. This site allows me to trace my route and calculate my distances with precision, using the satellite/street hybrid view.
MapMyRun should interest other athletes as well, especially cyclists who want to plan their rides. It features some nifty tools, including workout logs and calendars, training plans, calorie counters, heart rate zone recommendations, custom reports—even a gear tracker which will tell me when I’ve accumulated the maximum recommended miles on my shoes. An obsessive runner could easily spend way too much time on this site. Of course I won’t do that. [grin]
I used the site to plan the 9-mile run that I took yesterday. The run went quite well, made all the more productive because I was able to identify the exact point of each mile I had run, and could regulate my speed accordingly. If only MapMyRun could find a way to moderate the temperature, muzzle barking dogs, pinpoint public water fountains, chastise rude drivers, and guarantee goal times, my runs would be near perfect!
